False Witness (4 page)

“Quite.”

“But you never said you didn’t either.”

That seemed to silence him for a short while. I spent the time describing in detail the horrors of a trial: the public demanding
blood, the sleazy reporters, the court artists who would portray him with demonic features and bad skin; then there were the
cold stares of the jury and that dreadful moment when the verdict was announced.

I wasn’t sure whether he was really listening, but when I had finished, his mood had changed. When I started to explain the
benefits of a guilty plea yet again, Kingsley suddenly stopped me. And he agreed to plead guilty to manslaughter.

So when we finally went upstairs, I sat in the front row of Court 8 and waited for the defendant to fulfill his part of the
bargain. I even turned toward the dock and started to mouth, “But guilty of manslaughter.”

Kingsley looked away.

“Perhaps you might like to take some instructions from your client, Mr. Fawley.” Of course, there exists a state of limbo
between the Bar and oblivion called being a judge. The nearest incumbent rattled his chains, not even attempting to hide his
displeasure. But I knew Mr. Justice Manly very well.

Ignatius Manly was one of the first black men elevated to the High Court Bench. He was not a bad judge, which is not to say
he was a good judge—which of them were, when you were defending a hopeless case? But he was fair. Black folks know a thing
or two about justice, he once told me, slipping as he occasionally did into a mid-Atlantic vernacular. Yes, we know about
justice because we’ve had none for five hundred years.

After Manly had spoken to me, I adopted that half-crouched scuttling position barristers rather shamelessly assume when the
judge is in court. Manly sat at the front, high above me. As I got up, the prosecution team sat to my right. The defendant
was detailed at the rear of the court. It all appeared faintly ridiculous to me. We were in the new part of the Old Bailey
and the courtroom was full of stripped wood and spongy seats. It looked rather like the departure lounge of a tacky provincial
airport.

On the way to the dock, I passed Justine Wright.

“Shall I cancel the Savoy, Tom?” she whispered. “The table’s booked for twelve thirty.”

Suddenly, I was behind schedule.

Justine Wright was on the other side of the legal divide. As prosecuting junior, she was separated from me by a Chinese wall.
But given a little
foie gras
and a lot of vintage Burgundy, I hoped that such walls—and who knew what other barriers?—might come tumbling down. Lunch
at the Savoy with Justine was one of the fringe benefits of a guilty plea. Of course, I hadn’t told Kingsley this. He would
be dining at Her Majesty’s pleasure and then slopping out.

I reached the dock, which was like a wooden playpen at the very back of the court. Varnished wood came up to chest level and
there was a gate-like opening guarded by a dock officer.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Nothing much.”

“So there’s no problem?”

“There’s no problem,” Kingsley said. “Well, not for me. You see, I’m going to fight the case. I hope that’s not going to be
too inconvenient for you, Mr. Fawley.”

K
INGSLEY SAT IN THE DOCK AND PLAYED WITH AN
ancient ring on his shriveled right hand, while the whole court waited for me to resolve the situation.

“We had a deal,” I said.

“You had a deal,” he replied.

“Yes. I had a deal, Mr. Kingsley. It’s the best deal
I’m
going to get.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Funny thing is, it’s not me who will get a life sentence for murder. It’s you.”

“I think I had noticed that.”

“Well, have you also noticed those rows of good citizens with saliva dribbling from their jowls?” I pointed a little histrionically
to the public gallery, but Kingsley ignored me.

“You see, Mr. Fawley, I’ve decided: I don’t do deals.”

“Well, you better start.” By now my voice had risen to an indecorous, that is, audible level.

“Is there a problem?” Ignatius Manly’s rich baritone boomed across the court; it bristled with impatience, and I could feel
an attack of the vernacular coming on.

“There isn’t a problem, M’Lord. But—”

“But what?”

“But I’d like a little more time.”

“And I’d like to win friends and influence people, but I’ve got a court to run.” Manly threw down his pencil, a favorite judicial
trick. “Now is your client pleading guilty or not guilty?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“No,” he said. “Why should you know? You’re only his barrister.”

“Yes, M’Lord.”

“You know, Mr. Fawley, in my day at the Bar, a barrister used to take the trouble to find out whether his client was pleading
guilty or not guilty to murder. We had a word for it. It was called being a professional.”

This public humiliation riled me and I attempted to fight back. “I
have
been trying to get instructions, M’Lord. But I haven’t had much luck.”

“Well, you better get some.”

“Luck or instructions, M’Lord?”

“Both,” he shouted. “Now get on with it.”

I turned to Kingsley and tried to adopt my most professional tone. “If you fight the murder, you’re bound to be convicted.”

“How do you know?” he asked.

“Trust me.”

“Can you think of any good reason why I should?”

I could not. So I decided to try another line of attack. “Plead to manslaughter and you’ll only get ten years. With time off
for remand and remission, you’ll be out in six.”

“That’s easy for you to say. But can you imagine what a six-year sentence means?”

“Mr. Kingsley,” I said, straightening my back and trying to look down imperiously. “I’ve been married for seven years. This
is the best deal you’re going to get.”

“Six years is a long time.”

“Life, they tell me, is a little longer,” I said. “Look, if you convince some dotty bishop you’ve found religion, they might
let you out even sooner than six.”

“No deals.”

“They might even campaign for your release. You might become a miscarriage of justice.”

“No deals,” he said in such a way that I knew it was the end of the discussion, for his eyes rolled over and even seemed white,
like those of a shark when it has made its kill. And I imagined Kingsley among the stones, and a knife was in his hand, and
the hand was no longer shriveled, but healthy and slender, like a woman’s, and there was no discussion as he went about his—little
games.

When I returned to my position in counsel’s row, my junior, Emma Sharpe, had drawn a gallows and a noose in her notebook with
a question mark against it. But I wasn’t in a playful mood as I knew the judge was waiting.

I needed to compose myself. The glass of water rattled against my teeth as I took a sip. I was wearing my midnight blue suit
which was double-breasted, naturally, a battered pair of brogues, scuffed at the toes, black stuff gown, and a wig—ashen gray,
filthy, and held together with pins. I was the picture of the thoroughly modern barrister. I was going to trial on a murder
and didn’t have a prayer.

“The plea of not guilty stands, M’Lord,” I said.

For a moment Mr. Justice Manly was lost for words which, on the whole, was a welcome state of being for a hostile judge. He
whispered something to Leonard. Leonard sulked. But then Leonard always sulked when he saw a black man as opposed to a black
cap on the Bench.

Two dozen people were brought into court. They had an almost comical variety of tired faces, trash novels and rolled-up newspapers.
They looked bored and annoyed, as if they were waiting for a charter flight to Torremolinos and had been delayed yet again.

Leonard shuffled the cards and selected twelve of this jury panel at random. They were strangers to each other, strangers
to the law—they didn’t even know what the case was about. And I knew nothing about them. The law specifically prevents two
classes of persons from being on a jury: criminals and lawyers. Apart from that, they could be virtually anybody. And they
were to decide whether Richard Kingsley murdered Molly Summers.

I wished it was a Friday. Friday at the Old Bailey: fish served in the Bar Mess and a diet of rape and buggery pleas downstairs.
Friday was a day of reckoning. Not too many people pretended they were innocent on a Friday. But there we were in Court 8
on a bright Monday morning. Start of the week, start of the trials, high-water mark of the hopeless defense, and despite all
my efforts, Kingsley’s case was to be no different.

As each of the jurors was sworn, I hurriedly drafted a notice of alibi, including the name of Philip Templeman. When I had
given it to the prosecution team, the trial began.

“M
EMBERS OF THE JURY,” SAID
A
UBREY
D
AVENPORT
QC, the prosecution leader, “the evidence that Richard Kingsley murdered Molly Summers is overwhelming. But”—here Davenport
glanced at the judge—“but Mr. Kingsley has pleaded not guilty.”

Like many large men, Davenport had a slightly high-pitched voice, as though a tape of his speech was being played back at
the wrong speed. He was eighteen stones, pigeon-toed and had a revolting mustache, all of which made me suspicious of him.
He whistled Puccini arias at the Old Bailey urinals, always ate red meat, never drank white wine, and salivated at the sight
of female jurors. He was mediocre at speeches, passable in cross-examination, yet prided himself on his eloquence, which was
his incorrect diagnosis of a chronic bout of verbal flatulence.

But the most disgusting thing about Aubrey Davenport, and it was a truly disgusting thing amid stiff competition, was his
special knack for inserting his fat tongue into women’s ears in the backs of taxis. What astonished me was that surprisingly
few complained, and when they did, it was more an objection to his rough bristle on their earlobes rather than to the insertion
of the offending organ in the first place.

At the front of Court 8, Davenport licked his lips and said, “So to this, the most serious of charges, the defendant has pleaded
not guilty. That is his right. But after you’ve heard all the evidence, if you’re sure he killed this sixteen-year-old girl
in cold blood, you will convict him of murder. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is your right.”

Mr. Justice Manly scowled, not at Kingsley but at me, his eyes brooded and I imagined his lips whispering unknown indignities
to come. He scribbled something down in his red, leather-bound notebook.

Earlier, Manly had invited all counsel into his private chambers. It was an invitation that could not be refused. He asked
me if I could indicate which issues were likely to arise, which was coded language for: What on earth is your defense? I told
him that I didn’t know and then looked around the room, trying to avoid his eyes.

Manly’s chambers were little different to those of the other Old Bailey judges. The room was full of dark wood, somber leather
and the mauled bones of defense counsel who had said the wrong thing. But above his desk, Manly had a rather badly painted
watercolor. It was of a Caribbean beach with gaily painted fishing boats and the sun breaking through onto distant mountains.
I had always liked it.

Judges’ chambers are that part of the law the public is not allowed to see. They are half private club, half trading room.
The commodities are familiar enough: crime and punishment, probation and prison. But it was the secrecy that used to make
me feel guilty, the skulking around behind closed doors. It was as if I had entered into an alliance against my client, as
if he was being auctioned and no bid would be too low. And I felt that another kind of judge, who was even more formidable
than Ignatius Manly, had entered a mark against my name in a book that was even darker than his.

After Davenport had been speaking for fifteen minutes, two things had begun to happen. His elephantine frame began to break
out in sweat, and the jury started to glaze over. They sat there bemused, somewhat embarrassed to be in the spotlight, trying
desperately not to fidget or yawn. No one volunteers for such a job. The electoral roll spins and there they are: dragged,
if not kicking and screaming, then with a certain reluctance from their sitting rooms, betting shops, public houses and dole
offices.